Learning How to Live
by Smackalicious
Summary: Ziva has learned how to kill, but she must learn how to live. Ziva POV. Written for the Ziva as Mossad Operative challenge on NFA. COMPLETE.
1. Prologue

**Title: Learning How to Live  
Summary: Ziva has learned how to kill, but she must learn how to live. Ziva POV.  
Rated: PG-13  
Categories: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama  
Genre: Action, Angst, Character Study  
****Warnings: Character Death (canon)  
Author's Notes: Written for the Ziva as Mossad Operative challenge on NFA, which details a scene or event in Ziva's life before she joined NCIS.**

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Prologue

From a young age, I knew the differences between right and wrong, good and evil, what should be done versus what actually was done. Years later, I have put my knowledge to use, and it pains me to know that even with the best of intentions, good does not always triumph over evil and in some cases, what I see as protecting the innocent may be viewed as a crime.

My name is Ziva David and I am an officer for the Mossad. My job description? I'm an assassin. I kill people for a living. It is my responsibility to ensure the safety of Israeli citizens, as well as to retaliate for wrongdoings done to these citizens. I obtain information through whatever means I can – whether it is through classic Mossad torture techniques or using my more . . . feminine wiles. Yes, I will sleep with someone for information, and I do not limit myself to men. I do not have issues seducing another woman to get what I want. After all, the majority of women are notoriously flighty and emotional, seeking love and approval from any possible source, and when they feel they have that security, they will let their barriers crumble and will expose even their darkest secrets. Vulnerability makes for an easy target.

Yet I myself am not like most women. I do not thrive on attention from men, nor do I allow myself to become attached to people. I do not need their blessing to go about my daily activities, to do the things I prefer to do. I am a strong, independent woman. I need to be in my profession. Anything less could equal death, and I am not prepared to give up my life because I let myself become emotionally involved in the process of doing my job. It is simplest to refrain from attachment to anyone or anything. Though it is not always easy. I discovered that three years ago, and since that day, I have only allowed a select few to see that I am not all warrior all the time. It is far too dangerous to open myself further, and I do not think I could bear the heartbreak if what happened those three years ago occurred once more.

I do not know that I have it in me to live through that again. Realistically, I know I am not free of these people being taken from me, with my profession and theirs, too, but the least I can hope for is that I will not be there when it happens, when that moment comes that threatens to destroy any sense of the truth and justice I have come to know as my own personal faith.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_Early 2000  
Tel-Aviv, Israel_

"Yes, Father, I can assure you that the mission went smoothly. Yes, I have spoken to Ari. He is at the safe house. Yes, yes. Shalom."

Another mission gone successfully. This time, the target was an Armenian arms dealer; he had held a number of Israelis hostage in his attempts to ferret money from our government to assuage his need for weapons. Needless to say, his passion backfired on him, as we caught him and used his own stockpile to take him down. Just another day, another crime avenged.

I headed for my apartment window, looking down at the busy streets below. It really was not very smart of me to be living so close to all this action, not when I was targeted myself for my job. But I knew how to take care of myself. And if all else failed, I could turn to Ari or, as a last resort, my father.

Ari may have been 10 years older than I, and only my half-brother, but he cared for me more than our father seemed to; Ari had had a rough relationship with our father, and the only reason they spoke was because of our involvement in Mossad, of which our father was Deputy Director. He was all business and it seemed to be expected of us to join up with Mossad once we were old enough. I did not join Mossad because of my father, however; I joined because I wanted to protect my home country, my Israel.

I had not learned my trade simply as a means of protecting Israel's citizens, but as a means of self-protection and self-preservation . . . and to protect my sister. Tali was born 5 years after I, and as such, I felt an instinctive need to shelter her from the corrupt ways of the world. It is silly to believe I would be able to entirely keep her away from the evil invading the country, when it is in fact all around us, every day of our lives, but at least I could attempt to keep her safe from harm.

The townspeople milled around in the plaza floors beneath my gaze, oblivious to the acts of terror planned for the upcoming days. That is my job, preventing those attacks, being proactive in the removal of such threats from the community. I can only hope what I have done already is enough to keep those innocent bystanders just that – innocent.

I returned to my bedroom, shedding my clothes and climbing into bed. I constantly worry for those people in the streets, whether my work has been successful or whether I have failed. If anything terrorist-related happened to any of those people, it was my responsibility. It was my job to protect them, and what good would I be if I could not even do that?

Pushing the destructive thoughts from my head, I allowed myself to fall into a restless slumber.

My phone buzzing relentlessly next to my head woke me a few hours later. I let my eyes drift open and grabbed for it; it was not uncommon to receive orders in the middle of the night.

However, while the voice on the other end of the line was a familiar one, he was not summoning me to work. His voice held a tone of concern, unusual for him, even while speaking with me.

"Ari, what is it? You sound distraught."

His breath hitched; a surefire sign something was amiss. The next words from his mouth were said so bluntly that they seemed like a joke, but a horribly cruel one at that.

"Zivaleh . . . Tali's dead."


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

I disconnected with Ari, allowing the phone to drop to my mattress. It was Hamas. There had been suicide bombers in the streets of the city, and Tali had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She did not deserve this. No innocent person deserved such cruelty, such an unfortunate death, but especially not dear Tali. She was 16 years old! Much too young to die in such a way.

I felt the tears begin to trickle down my face. My baby sister was dead. And I should have prevented it.

Was that not my job, to prevent these acts of terrorism from occurring in the first place? I felt so utterly useless at that moment. Here I was, not even 21 years of age, and I had lost one of the most important people in my life. At least I still had my brother, Ari; at least he was skilled with weapons so he knew how to protect himself. But even the most lethal weapons could not prevent death in the case of these suicide bombers.

I quickly made my way to the small sink in my bathroom, running the tap for a few moments, then splashing the cool water on my cheeks. Father would be showing up shortly, this I knew, and I could not allow him to see me cry. It sounds silly, downright animalistic, to say I was not allowed to mourn for the loss of my own flesh and blood, but Father would not see things the way I did. He would expect me to carry on, maintain a professional and distanced façade. And while it would not be easy to do, I knew that was what I had to do, in order to keep my position at Mossad – though most likely not my sanity.

There would be time later for mourning, however. Now I had to collect myself, prepare for my father's arrival.

I sat back down on my bed and tried not to think about Tali, or at the very least, about what had happened in that plaza, about the look on her face when she realized she was about to die, about how she must look now . . .

A knock on the door yanked me from my vivid thoughts. I let out a breath. I had almost taken myself to the place I had not wanted to go – I had already lost too many close to me, and I could not allow myself to return to that grieving. But I could not think about how I almost made that mistake. I had to focus on the now, on what my father would say.

I opened the door and my mouth dropped in surprise. "Ari. I was . . . not expecting you."

"I see that, Zivaleh," he said, walking inside and closing the door behind us. He turned to face me. "Have you spoken to Father yet?"

"No, no, I thought that maybe you were him, coming to 'check on me.'" I rolled my eyes. He knew just as well as I that the only thing Father would be checking on would be to see if I were in proper condition to go about my work.

Ari placed a hand on my shoulder. "Tali was a sweet child. Undeserving of this." He paused, and I somehow knew he was about to channel our father, give me a speech about how I needed to be strong for our fallen sibling.

"Ziva, you cannot let this affect how you work," he ordered me softly. "It will be difficult, but there are many lives on the line . . ."

"Our sister is dead!" I spat out. I could not stay silent any longer. "Ari, does that mean nothing to you? A million lives saved cannot bring back Tali. She is gone, and it is all my fault." The tears I had wiped away before I answered the door returned, running in salty trails down my face.

Ari was silent. I am sure he did know how to react. What do you say to someone who has just told you she is the reason your sister is dead?

"Tali is dead because of herself."

My head shot up. "What?"

He shook his head. "I talked to her earlier, told her not to come . . ."

I jolted at him, pressing him against the wall – not an easy feat, by any means, but I managed. "She was coming to visit my mother's grave! Do you not understand the importance of that?" My grasp on him weakened, and I felt him pull my hands from his shoulders, bringing them to a rest in between us. He did not let go. "She just wanted to let her know she was there, she was okay . . ."

The sobs I had been holding back since Ari first delivered those words came to the surface then, and the last thing I remember from that moment was collapsing in my brother's arms, my body weak, my soul weaker . . .

Father did show up eventually, chastising me for my crying, telling me how ashamed Tali would be to see me acting this way over her. I wanted to yell and scream at him about how wrong he was, how Tali would have been touched, felt loved, that her sister – normally so vacant with her emotions – was grieving for her in an outward way. But then, he never had been one to understand the importance of family.

Everything was business to him, cold and logical, so to even attempt to explain how I was feeling was useless. _Emotions are careless_, he would say. _You cannot trust emotions to get you out of a dangerous situation. _

No, Father, I disagree. Emotions may not be able to defuse a bomb or shoot a target from 30 feet away, but without them, I would surely be dead myself, for I would be empty inside. Yes, they are careless and yes, they can hurt more than help at times, but I cannot live my life without feeling.

That I knew then, and that I know now. Because in order to live, to survive the world, I need to be able to feel – we all do. And I learned firsthand just how important that was just one year later, on a day no person, no matter how emotionally distant he is, will ever forget.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

September 11, 2001.

It is a day that needs no further explanation. The news took us all by surprise, and I found myself feeling a large sum of emotions, which I was not sure how to process. I had equipped myself after Tali's death to handle these types of situations with calculated distance, and allowing myself to become affected by what had happened took me by surprise. I was angry with myself at first. Yes, it was a tragedy, but tragedies happened constantly in Israel. I should have been prepared for such a thing. I realized eventually that there was a reason I was feeling what I was, and chose to hone in on the overriding emotion about what had happened.

I was angry. And I was going to use that anger to find the people responsible. I would bring at least a bit of justice to everyone affected by this horrific act of terrorism, and to all those affected by past acts.

I was doing this for Tali.

I found myself bolting from my chair, being the very first operative in my father's office that day, just hours after the news had aired, to volunteer my services in tracking down those responsible.

My father had raised an eyebrow at my eagerness, as I expected. He was very cold in handing out his orders, his demands.

"It is my understanding that this is the work of Al-Queda. You all know what to do." We turned to leave, but I felt his presence directly behind me before I could exit the room. I turned to face him. "You constantly surprise me, Zivaleh."

His voice had changed tones, was softer, but I knew it was simply a ploy to appeal to my feminine side – not that I had much of a feminine side in the first place. I held my head high. "You did not expect me to volunteer?"

His mouth cracked open a notch. Yes. There it was. The look of condescension, derision. "No, no. I had a feeling you would. I just did not expect such . . . enthusiasm."

"I do not want this to happen to anyone else. The terrorism needs to be brought to an end."

He seemed impressed by that statement. "I agree." He paused, then nodded. "Very well. Shalom, Ziva."

"Shalom, Papa." I left then, relieved the conversation had not taken the furious route I had imagined it may, but then, my father had a way of handling even the tensest situations with careful, controlled calmness. And I know he was simply letting me know in his own way that I should be cautious, as I had exposed my vulnerability with my, as he said, act of enthusiasm. I knew the moment I bounded from my seat that I was risking showing a weakness – that I possibly cared too much.

It was dangerous, to become so entranced in the lives of the victims, but I could not bring myself to become separated in just this one case. I had to make things up to my sister somehow, and avenging the deaths of thousands of innocent people seemed to be the only appropriate way to do so.

I returned home with revenge on my mind and as I entered the building, something felt off. I instinctively reached for my gun, slinking along the wall. As I rounded the corner leading to my apartment, I pulled the gun, expecting one of the lowlife scum that routinely break into homes to rob people of money and jewelry and expensive televisions.

However, I found myself face to face with a woman. An American woman. I could tell from the way her bright red hair was styled.

I kept my gun focused on her, demanding, "Who are you?"

"Jenny Shepherd, NCIS." She flashed a badge at me, then snapped it shut. Her face remained void of emotion. She was good, I would give her that.

But I was better.

I clicked the safety off. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

"It should . . . Ms. David."

I kept the surprise from my face. There were a large number of ways she could have discovered who I was; none of those ways were easy, though. She was either a terrorist or with the government. I decided to find out.

"NCIS."

She gave me a stealthy smile. "Naval Criminal Investigative Service. I was assigned to work with you." Her expression darkened. "No terrorist attacks my country and gets away with it."

I lowered my gun, clicking the safety back on, and gave Shepherd a brief nod. It was clear now what had happened. The U.S. felt a need to place their agents in other countries, to boost foreign relations, surely, and Shepherd somehow happened to be in Israel when the attacks happened. She volunteered to take on the case just as eagerly as I had done, my father found out, and assigned the two of us to work together.

At least, that is how things came together in my mind. No matter, though, because I was stuck with Shepherd until we found the terrorists and took care of them.

"Well, Ms. Shepherd, it looks as if we will be working together for awhile," I finally said. "Where have you been staying in Israel?"

She shrugged. "I just flew in . . . I thought I would check into a hotel somewhere."

I shook my head. Did this woman know nothing about working with Mossad? "No. That is far too dangerous."

She glared at me. "In case you haven't noticed, over 3,000 people died today. I think the terrorists are more concerned with the United States than Israel, with all due respect."

I sent back the glare and spoke. "Come with me." I brushed past her and opened my apartment door, turning and waiting for her to follow me inside. When she remained glaring at me, not moving, I reached out and pulled her into the room, closing the door behind us before she could protest.

I looked into her face and found her eyes blazing. She was mad as hell. But she needed to understand – Mossad was not your everyday government agency. It was more CIA than police academy; truthfully, from what I had seen so far of this Shepherd woman, I was not sure she was ready for this.

I walked into my living room, which was really my bedroom, and sat on the end of my bed. Shepherd didn't move. I rolled my eyes. Stubborn. That would prove interesting in the field. "What do you know about Mossad?"

She shrugged non-committally. "Just that you're Israel's version of the CIA. You know, spying, assassinating people, that sort of thing."

Alright, so maybe she did know what she was talking about. "Did you have any intentions on actually checking into a hotel?"

She gave me a look. "I'm not that naïve, Ziva. Can I call you Ziva?" She made her way towards me, stopping in front of me. I looked up into her face. "Ever work with a female partner before?"

I shook my head. Somehow I had lost my ability to speak. She made a face. "Me neither." She turned and sat down next to me on the bed. "You can call me Jen or Jenny, by the way."

"I would prefer not to," I found myself saying, and instantly regretted it, not because of the harshness of the words, but because I knew she would ask why. Women always did that – demanded explanations. Men did not care. They would simply get mad or accept the response.

Sure enough, I felt her curious gaze fall on me. "May I ask why?" She sounded put off, like I was inconviencing her. If anything, she was the one wasting my time, trying to become friends.

"I prefer to keep work relationships professional," I said. I hoped she would accept that and not pry any further, but I knew I would not be so lucky. As I said, she is a woman, and women are nosy by nature, especially American women.

She was quiet for a moment and I thought that perhaps she was different than other women, but then she did speak, snuffing out that idea. "Ziva, how old are you?"

"Old enough to know that what I have seen is far worse than what you have," I responded sharply.

"You have no idea what I have seen," she said, her voice soft.

I looked over and found her looking at her hands in her lap. When she did raise her head, her eyes met mine and I knew I had lost all hope of keeping our relationship professional.

We were bound to become friends, confidantes, something more than just two people forced to work together to bring down evil. I knew the moment I looked into her eyes that Jenny would be a figure in my life for a long period of time to come.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Remind me again why we're going to France?" I looked up from my suitcase to Jen's face. She had announced that she had received orders that we were to travel to Europe, searching for connections there to Al-Queda. Which was all fine and well, but she had insisted that our first stop be France, when I felt Russia and some of the eastern countries would be a more logical place to begin.

Her eyes twinkled, which meant she was thinking with her heart instead of her head again. I let out a frustrated sigh. It was useless to argue with her, tell her she should try to remain detached from where we were headed, put the past behind her. Hell, I wasn't any better than she. I was on this mission to avenge my baby sister's death. That was the long and short of it. Yes, I did feel for the Americans who lost their loved ones in the attacks, but I was on this operation for my own selfish reasons. To deny Jen her past, whatever it was, would be simply hypocritical of myself.

"Just to relive the past, Ziva," her voice carried over to me, snapping me from my thoughts.

I adjusted my expression quickly, hoping she hadn't noticed how distracted I had gotten. Now was not the time for reminiscing or remembering. We needed to stay focused. If I lost track of the present, then I would be just as bad as Jen. As much as I had reluctantly grown to care for her as a friend, I had to admit that this habit she had of returning to the past was something I was unable to rid her of. It was a hopeless cause, one that could get us into a lot of trouble if we were not careful.

"Ziva?" Damn. She caught me thinking again. I looked to her, mocking innocence. She smiled. "I asked if you were ready to go. But clearly," her eyes sparkled in mischief, "you've been sidetracked by something." She tipped her head at me and I groaned inwardly. I did not want to answer whatever questions she had, no matter how steeped in sympathy they were. "I'm curious about you, Ziva."

I rolled my eyes, a gesture I was hoping she would see. "There is not much to know," I muttered, waiting for her to get the point and leave me alone.

"Somehow I doubt that's the truth," were the next words from her mouth, and I was slightly concerned to hear a tinge of pain in her voice. She did not know me! Why was she getting so upset? It did not matter. Once we were through with this mission, she would return to America and I would not see her again.

I found myself speaking, and the words I chose surprised even myself. "My past is not something I care to discuss. I find it disheartening. I have made a conscious decision to live life in the present, not focusing on the past." I looked up and found Jen watching me, her eyes glowing with interest. I tilted my gaze down again and soon felt the soft brush of her fingertips on my forearm. I raised my eyes to her face.

"Can't you just choose to remember the good times?" Her tone was soothing, motherly – she must have known all the techniques a good interrogator uses to get information out of someone. But I was not just anyone; I knew the ins and outs of interrogations, and I could see what she was doing.

"You forget that I am . . ." I trailed off intentionally, waiting for her to make another move to get me to speak, then finished, "trained in the art of interrogation, Jenny. You will not get me to talk that easily."

She frowned, shoving her suitcase closed and zipping it angrily. "Sometimes it's nice to just know people, Ziva," she spat at me, then exited the room, slamming the door as she went.

I realized then that pushing people away was not always the best course. I could not open myself to every person who came along, no, but there was something about Jen that told me she was not just another shallow agent, trying to snoop around in other people's lives. No, she genuinely cared about what happened to me, what _had _happened to me, for a reason I had not yet deciphered. And because of that, I could not just act like a bitch to her. She deserved more than that.

I zipped my own suitcase and hauled it off my bed, carrying it out the door with me, where I saw Jen standing in the kitchen, sink running and hands bracing the countertop. She was upset and I didn't blame her. I was acting horribly towards her, treating her as I would someone I was looking to track down and kill. And while it was not my nature to apologize, I felt as though I should. I needed a friend, and right now it looked like Jen would be it.

"Do you know why I wanted to be on this assignment?" I asked, causing her to jump. She turned towards me, a dubious look on her face. She didn't believe I would actually tell her.

"Why? You were bored and needed something to do?" Ah. So she could plate it out as well as she could take it.

I gave her a wan smile. This was no time for a pissing match. I needed to be the bigger person. "One year ago, I received news that someone close to me had been in the way of a Hamas suicide bombing." Jenny's face paled and I continued. "It was my sister. She was 16 years old."

Any hint of anger dissipated from Jen's face and she made her way over to me, holding a hand out to place on my arm. "I'm sorry, Ziva. I had no idea . . ."

"Of course you didn't," I said softly. "I was trying to make sure of that." I made a face. "I do not handle emotional situations well. I do not know how to handle them." I shrugged. "And I did not want you to know because I did not think it important for you to know. I tend to be a rather private person."

"I think it's more than that, Ziva," Jen said, her fingers now brushing my forearm. I looked up and met her eyes. "You know, Ziva, just because you're a woman in a male-dominated profession, that doesn't mean you have to give up your feminine side."

I couldn't help but smirk. "That has not been too difficult thus far, Jenny. My mother died when I was young and I was raised primarily by my father – the Deputy Director of Mossad."

"Ah," Jen said, her eyebrows rising in realization. "So you aren't sure how to react in emotional situations?"

"That is what I said."

She sucked her lower lip into her mouth, realizing her faux pas. "Sorry. I, um . . ."

"Thought it was an excuse, no?" I shrugged. "Understandable. I have not been completely honest with you up until now. But I can assure you that I am not lying now." I looked at the floor, suddenly finding it very interesting. "I did not want to trust you. The people I trust get taken away from me. I thought it would be easier the less you knew about me, the less trust I put in you."

When I looked up again, her eyes were sympathetic. "I'm a federal agent, Ziva. I know how to prevent getting hurt."

"No one is immune to death, not even the best trained warriors," I told her, my tone firm, yet soft.

"That is very eloquent, Ziva," Jen said. "And true. I'm glad to see you recognize that."

I shrugged again. "I have seen far too much death to think otherwise."

"Right, of course," she said. She was silent for a moment, then spoke again. "We should probably get going. Wouldn't want to miss our flight."

I nodded in agreement. It was better to end this conversation now, rather than delve into those emotions I had hid for so long. "Yes, I want to find those responsible."

"So do I, Ziva," Jen said. "So do I."

Somehow I knew I could believe her, I could trust her. So I did.


	6. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

We arrived in France later that day, getting off the plane and getting directly to work. There was no time to waste in tracking down terrorists, and we had already lost time in our discussion earlier that day.

It was a relief, in ways, to have that weight off my chest, the build-up of all those emotions released. But I knew this was far from the end. I would still have difficult times ahead, would have things I couldn't tell Jen. I would survive, though. I always had.

It turned out that France, as I had predicted, led us nowhere in our search. We made our way throughout the remainder of Europe, leaving our marks across the continent, reporting failures and successes, advances we had made towards bringing justice to those affected by the attacks in America and struggles overcoming the countless times what we thought were leads taking us nowhere, leaving us at times two steps behind where we had begun.

So we received orders to move on. Those orders took us to Africa, to the heat of Cairo, back to a weather that felt like home for me. We found ourselves entrenched in more danger there than Europe as a whole and Jenny promised she would pay me back somehow for how I saved her life one day, how I put my own life on the line to keep hers from ending. I told her it was my job, but I could not have imagined losing her right then. I needed her in my life at that moment as much as I needed anyone.

Our mission together ended after Cairo and I returned to my home in Israel. The apartment I had left felt empty and cold without the constant companionship I had grown accustomed to, but it was not for long, as I soon received news I was to become a control officer – for my own brother. Ari had requested me. I smiled inwardly at the news that I would not be alone. I had something to distract myself from the loss of Jen, from the loss of Tali, from the loss of any real female figure in my life, and while I knew being Ari's control officer would not make up for losing my sister or being mainly unsuccessful in the attempt to hunt down the Al-Queda terrorists, it was something.

It has been three years now since my sister was killed and I still think of her daily while doing my job. I know the terrorism will never end, but the least I can do is lessen its effects. I still believe that good can conquer evil and I live that motto everyday as I seek to destroy the evil that does exist in this world.

I do not know what the future will bring for me, but I know that I am a stronger person for what I have gone through. I will still have hard times, but with the bad comes the good, no matter how disproportionate the two may seem. I have learned how to take life away and now I am finally learning how to find it for myself.

**THE END**

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_A/N: I took some creative liberties as far as timelines and such; I'm not sure what was mentioned canonically about Ziva being Ari's control officer, and the story was more about Ziva's journey as a person, finding herself, rather than the details of what she was doing during that time. Her history does interest me a lot, though, and I may write more of her life before she came to NCIS in the future._


End file.
